


F Sharp

by cumberpatchcats



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, M/M, fucking anderson - Freeform, god bless molly hooper, sex won't happen for like ten chapters, sherlock is a dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberpatchcats/pseuds/cumberpatchcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When world-class violinist Sherlock Holmes is a guest soloist at the London Symphony Orchestra, second clarinetist John Watson can't resist giving him a home for the duration of his stay. Or perhaps a bit longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

John Watson could be considered a man of many talents. At his young age, he had already accomplished more than many will in their entire lifetimes. He had earned his medical degree, seen the battlefield, and now played music for a living. The London Symphony Orchestra had welcomed him with open arms upon hearing for the first time the incredible sound John could emit from his clarinet and within two short years, he had been promoted to second chair. It was a sedentary lifestyle, predictable and often mundane, but John didn't mind so much. After his chaotic trip to war, mundane was very good.

John woke up in the morning, had a hearty breakfast, read the news, and walked to the conservatory every weekday. Rehearsal lasted for three hours, to which he was then granted a two hour long lunch break before continuing on with his instrumental playing, during which he had a nice filling sandwich and a walk around the block where he could revel in the sunny warm air and fresh scent of home. On the weekends, he went out with friends, sometimes to a bar, and sometimes he would return home with a pretty young lady. Often these females would not last more than the weekend-storming out yelling "you care more about that damn clarinet than you do about me!"

But John didn't mind too much. He liked his life. It was normal. Steady. Stress-free. Bound to let him live up to a ripe old age.

Upon preparation of the Orchestra's annual summer performance, conductor Greg Lestrade announced that a prized violinist had returned home after his grand world tour and had graciously agreed to be the soloist for their upcoming recital. All around him, musicians began to chatter amongst themselves in excited frenzies. John, perplexed by the situation, turned to Sally Donovan, the first clarinetist and asked "what's got everyone in a rally? We've had soloists before."

Sally rolled her eyes as if she were annoyed by the entire scenario. "Oh, but this one's special."

"Special?" John asked, raising his eyebrows in curiosity.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sally sighed, obviously exasperated. "Supposedly the greatest violinist of our time, but I think he's more of a twit, really."

John nodded slowly. "Sherlock Holmes." The name seemed to roll right off his tongue as if it was meant to be said. You'd have to be a hermit not to know who Sherlock Holmes was. A child prodigy, graduated from the American school Julliard, who claimed to be able to play any piece by ear-blindfolded. John didn't know too much about the man, he had only seen him on television once or twice and didn't think too much of his instrumental skills. He had seen Sherlock mostly on the news being arrested for drug abuse. Violin prodigy turns to heroin. Musical genius arrested for suspected drug usage. Young violinist found unconscious in home, rushed to hospital-drugs to blame? The most recent headline had occurred just before Sherlock left on his world tour. Sherlock Holmes to give performances around the world after year long rehab. John figured his fame was mainly attributed to his pretty face and lively drug history, but if the mention of his presence excited the whole orchestra, perhaps he really was as good as everyone claimed.

"Okay quiet down, everyone," Lestrade commanded upon his conductor's podium. "We've still got practice. Remember, Sherlock only plays with the orchestras he believes are the best. If we show him we suck, he'll walk out the door faster than he came in."

This mention surprised John and he turned back to Sally. "He can do that?"

"Oh sure," Sally answered. "He's infamous for turning down highly respected companies because he doesn't think they play well enough. And it doesn't ruin his reputation because he's such a fantastic violinist."

"What an arse!" John exclaimed. Sally only nodded in agreement.

John went home that night with his clarinet in his hand and his mind busied with Holmes. The name was no epiphany, of course. Another Holmes-Mycroft, owned the orchestra, as well as probably most of London. He was the main contributor to the orchestra and the reason everyone got paid so generously. From what John had heard, Mycroft was a politician-the entire British government, people say-and infamous for manipulating anybody into getting what he wants. John doubts he follows the rules half the time, but hey, nobody will arrest you if you're rich enough.

As a child, John often fantasized of being rich, as most children do. He came from a middle class family where money was tight but stable, and he lived a very comfortable life. Of course he yearned for luxuries, as children often do, but he was always understanding if he couldn't get a certain videogame for Christmas. He could just imagine how the Holmes children must have grown up. They probably had nannies and butlers and a whole bunch of friends to play with in their massive oversized rooms. Still, perhaps they had to be careful about running around the house with their parents' expensive vases and various ornaments strewn about. Sherlock probably got any videogame he asked for.

So as John drifted off to sleep in the comforts of his own little bed, he nuzzled his face into the soft linen covers of his sheet and thought to himself that it must be rather nice to be rich.

 

xxx

 

Of course John was excited the next morning. It's not every day you get to meet a violinist that could play Mendelssohn at the age of six, after all. He was nervous as well, naturally, for Lestrade's warning lingered in his ears. If Sherlock did not like what he heard, he would not bother himself to stay, and more than anything, John wanted to perform with him-if just to be able to tell his grandchildren that one time he had performed with the great Sherlock Holmes.

He got to the conservatory earlier than usual, perhaps to get a glimpse of the violinist, but alas Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

In fact, nearly an hour and a half into rehearsal, he had still not shown up and John was beginning to worry. More than anything, though, he had begun to worry that nobody else seemed to be worrying. Lestrade seemed extremely focused on his conducting and the musicians seemed extremely focused on their playing, and John couldn't help but wonder why they weren't as worried as him.

While Lestrade took a five minute break to catch a breath and grab a bottle of water, John leaned over and asked Sally, "is he coming today?"

"Who?" Sally asked, puzzled.

"Sherlock Holmes!" John exclaimed, surprised that she had forgotten.

"Oh!" Sally nodded. And then her face twisted to something unpleasant. "Him. Oh, he'll show up when he feels like it."

Just then, as if right on cue, the auditorium doors burst open and all eyes were on the entrance as a tall thin figure emerged into the room.

Chatter began amongst the orchestra yet again, but John's eyes were silently transfixed on the elegant creature that strided towards the lot of them.

Lestrade sputtered a bit as he rushed to greet the figure. "Sherlock!" He gave a short laugh. "Welcome home!"

"Yes," Sherlock responded, and John was quite shocked to find how deep of a voice the young violinist had. He and Lestrade shook firm hands as he said "I apologize on being tardy. I was working on an experiment and I must have lost track of time."

"An experiment?" John asked, mostly to Sally.

Sally turned to face John and said "oh, didn't I mention? He's also a chemist. Isn't that charming? Is there anything that man can't do?" Her sarcasm was blatantly obvious, but John could see her point. He let out a whistle. A scientist and a musician. Strange combination indeed, but an outstanding one nonetheless.

Lestrade clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. "Well, let's waste no time then, Sherlock! Are you prepared for Tchaikovsky?"

"That one's dull," Sherlock responded blatantly. "I was hoping to start with the Mendelssohn."

John was shocked. The nerve of that man! It was a common rule in the music world that the conductor is god and that all should obey him no matter what the circumstances. Usually, backtalking the conductor earned you a one way ticket out of a job and into the streets. However, John witnessed as Lestrade simply nodded and muttered out "Oh…o-okay then, yes, indeed. We'll start with the Mendelssohn then."

As Sherlock tuned his instrument, John took the chance to look over him just a bit. There was no doubt Sherlock was a handsome fellow, tall and slim and well-proportioned. He had high cheekbones and a mess of curly dark hair and a well-defined upper lip and his eyes were…what color? Blue? Green? Both? Neither?

His body was sharp and angular, his hands long and bony as they gripped his instrument. Quite honestly, he looked so elegant and fragile John was almost afraid he'd break in half right in the middle of rehearsal.

Even as Lestrade raised his arms and began conducting, John couldn't take his eyes off the captivating presence of Sherlock Holmes.

And when Sherlock began to play, John could swear he was an angel of music descended from the heavens to show the world what music should sound like. His fingers moved nimble and quick across the strings and the bow glided across the instrument with such elegance and ease. John could hardly concentrate on his own music with Sherlock standing there looking like his violin just belonged right there on his shoulder.

Never before had John been blessed to witness such an angelic presence right there in front of him. Never before had he been able to listen to such majesty live and in person. He had listened to Sherlock play only once or twice before, but he had never been able to just sit down an enjoy it. And of course, he only sounded so much better in person.

When the piece was over, Sherlock slowly let his arms down, his violin dangling at his side. He glanced over his shoulder and scanned the orchestra, and for just a split second, his eyes locked onto John and John could feel a chill rush down his spine.

And then Sherlock raised a bony index finger at the pit and pointed straight at an individual. All eyes were suddenly on the trumpet section. "You there," Sherlock's deep booming voice called. "What's your name?"

The trumpet player in question sputtered a bit before answering "Anderson, sir."

"Anderson," Sherlock repeated, with perhaps just a tiny of a sneer. "I never want to hear you play that loud and that awful ever again. You drown out the entire orchestra and I can hardly hear my own instrument. Or at least if you must play that loud, play the right notes. No wonder your wife's gone and left you-she probably couldn't take any more of your horrible playing."

Anderson's mouth gaped wide open and he stuttered a bit before instantly shutting up and shrinking down into his seat. Around him musicians struggled not to laugh. John was more interested in how in the world Sherlock had deciphered Anderson's recent divorce.

Beside John, Sally began to fume silently. Her hatred towards Sherlock was quite evident, and John had to wonder what her motive was for disliking him so much. True, he was arrogant, but then again most soloists are.

At the end of the day, Sherlock left the scene rather quickly. John was perhaps a bit disappointed, as he had wanted to congratulate the violinist on a job well done, but he figured he'd have another opportunity in the near future. Tomorrow, perhaps.

As they were packing up, John acknowledged Sherlock's talents to Sally. "He's quite good though, isn't he?"

"He's just a freak," Sally answered. "And no more good than any other soloist out there. He's only famous because he stands out, and he only stands out because he's a freak of nature and he likes to challenge authority. If I had my way around here, I'd kick him out in a heartbeat."

John pressed his lips together tightly, but left the conversation alone.

And so he packed up his things and set off for home.

About halfway home, he was just in the middle of mentally planning out his supper when he had an aching feeling he was missing something. Something rather important, in fact. Indeed when he set his clarinet case down in the middle of the sidewalk and opened it, he was startled to find that his reeds were missing. He vaguely recalled taking his reed box out during the lunch break to change out an old one, but he couldn't remember ever putting the box back in his case. Those reeds were important and extremely not cheap, and it would be terrible if he had lost them, so he set his mind on turning around and heading to the conservatory to search for them.

Being a military man, John could run without losing much energy so it was no burden returning to the auditorium. It was good for his health anyways, as he feared he wasn't getting enough exercise nowadays with his musical profession.

He let himself in through the backstage door and headed to the orchestra pit.

There he found himself startled by a presence on stage. He gasped and froze in place as his eyes laid sight on a certain violin player sitting in the middle of an empty strings section, legs propped up on the chair in front of him and fingers picking lazily at his violin strings, playing random notes and nothing comprehensible.

Sherlock Holmes.

Their eyes meet and John was face to face with astound beauty. And then Sherlock reached beside himself and took a small black box into his hands. John's reeds. "looking for this?"

John stuttered a bit. "Uh, yes, actually. I was. Thank you."

He took a step forward but froze again when Sherlock began to speak. "You know, you can learn a lot about a clarinet player from his reeds. How far down the reed is in your throat, how hard your teeth imprint into it, its quality and age, etcetera. For instance," with an elegant hand he opened up John's box and pulled out a single reed. "I can tell you used this one on a Monday, a day after having a bit too much to drink. Do you do that often? Are you an alcoholic?"

"N-no!" John hesitantly defended himself.

"Of course you aren't," Sherlock agreed. "Your hands are far too steady for that. You are, however, a soldier. Am I right?"

John's jaw dropped wide. "How did you know?"

"Just look at yourself," Sherlock explained. "Your haircut, your posture, the calluses on your hands that don't match playing the clarinet. You'd have to be an idiot not to notice. Ah, but you were injured or else you wouldn't be here playing with this dull orchestra."

"I'm not…it's not…" John scoffed. "Dull?"

"Were you shot?"

"The orchestra isn't dull!" John right near shouted, ignoring Sherlock's question completely. "And what are you doing here anyways? Shouldn't you be home?"

"I haven't got one," Sherlock responded.

John was taken aback. "So what, you're just going to sleep here in the conservatory?"

"Not quite sleep, no."

"Nobody made you housing arrangements?"

"Of course they did. My brother prepared a room for me at our childhood estate."

"So go," John said, quite puzzled by Sherlock's stubbornness.

Sherlock sneered as if the thought of sleeping at his brother's house was the most repulsive idea in the world. "I'm not sure if you've been keeping up with the rumors, but my brother and I aren't exactly on speaking terms."

"Well…" John started. "You can't stay here. I'm pretty sure it's illegal. Or something."

"And you have a better suggestion?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

John pressed his lips tightly together as he thought hard.

"That's what I thought," Sherlock nodded.

"No," John shouted abruptly. "No, you could stay with someone. Lestrade."

"Lestrade is married to a woman with whom I have never gotten along with."

"Me, then."

Silence filled the entire auditorium.

And then Sherlock spoke. "You?"

John doesn't have time to regret what he had said because he finds his body involuntarily nodding. "Me. It…it's not as large as you're used to, I suspect, but it's homely, and I don't have any kids or bothersome pets."

Sherlock let his lips curl into a little smirk. "You don't know what you're asking of."

"Of course I do," John defended himself.

"I'm a horrid roommate," Sherlock told him. "I play the violin at odd hours and I perform dangerous experiments wherever they suit me."

"You're also homeless," John pointed out. "So I don't understand why you're so determined to be difficult about this."

Sherlock nodded slowly, finally giving up. "All right then. I'll room with you." He outstretched his arm, John's reed box in hand. As John walked over to collect it, he finally asked John his name.

"Watson," was his response. "John Watson. And I _was_  injured. Shot."

"In the left shoulder."

"How did you know that?" John asked, bewildered.

"I'll tell you on the way home."


	2. Sherlock is the Worst Roommate Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but hey what else is new

Early in the morning, while John was comfortably sound asleep in his nice warm bed, there came a rapid tapping upon his front door. Still excruciatingly tired, John tried to ignore it, thinking the knocking would go away, but after a solid two minutes, it just got louder and more furious. So he heaved a sigh and swung his legs to the ground, standing up groggy and half-asleep.

When he flicked on the lights of the living room, he was startled to see Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table in nothing but one of John's bathrobes, stirring some strange concoction in one of John's pots. John could only hope and pray it wasn't poisonous, whatever it was.

"When did you wake up?" John asked, yawning.

"I didn't sleep," was Sherlock's response.

"Oh."

More knocking.

John groaned in exasperation. "You couldn't be bothered to get the door?" He walked over to the door.

"Oh don't worry, I know exactly who it is."

John paused with his hand around the doorknob. "Well then who is it?"

"Nobody of importance."

John groaned again and swung the door open. Upon laying eyes on his visitor, he had to clasp his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming. There, standing in his doorway, was the elder Holmes himself, tall and proud with his balding hair and slick black suit. John took a quick glance at the clock. Three am. Who wears a suit at three am?

"Mr. Holmes," John gasped. "Is everything all right?"

"I have reason to suspect my idiot brother is residing here," Mycroft stated, pushing through John's doorway and pointing a slick black umbrella into the room. "Ah, and there he is!"

"How did you find him?" John asked, honestly curious and perhaps a bit frightened for his privacy.

"You see, when he was a boy, I cleverly installed a micro tracking system under the skin of his neck," Mycroft explained.

At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's the most ridiculous lie I've heard leave your lips yet." Then to John he said "Mycroft has access to all the street cameras. He watches all of them with a sick and perverse intent."

At this, Mycroft frowned. "I'll have you know I can't be bothered with medial tasks like street-watching. My employees do that for me and report back. While I'm here, though, I'd like to insist you return home. Mummy does miss you so."

Sherlock let out a rather rude laugh. "I'll do no such thing. John here has offered me a pleasant stay here at his flat."

"I can see that," Mycroft said. "And it is a very nice flat, but nonetheless not suitable for a man of your caliber-no offense to Dr. Watson. At least find shelter under a suitable hotel."

John threw up his hands to indicate just how unoffended he was.

"Mycroft," Sherlock started, finally turning to face his brother. "Did you come for any reason other than to piss me off?"

To which Mycroft smiled a somewhat cold and sinister smile and replied "Not at all."

"Then, dear brother, kindly see yourself out and, if you might, please fuck yourself. We have rehearsal in a few hours."

John gasped. Never before had he ever heard anyone speak to the elder Holmes like that. Mycroft was a well-respected individual as well as a highly-feared politician. To sass him meant the end of your career, for sure, and yet here Sherlock was, an arrogant young musician, insulting his older brother like John had never seen.

Perhaps the most puzzling part is that Mycroft obeyed. He gave his most sarcastically polite nod of acknowledgement before turning sharply on his heels and walking out the door in a dignified manner, slamming it behind him.

For a long moment, John just stood there in shock and awe staring at the closed door of his flat and wondering what had happened to his nice calm sedentary life. Within the past twenty four hours, he has inhabited a world class violinist, met the biggest name in British government since the queen, and seen both of them brawl it out right before John's eyes. Indeed this was one for the history books.

When John turned to glance at Sherlock, the violinist had already turned his focus back on whatever he was concocting in John's pot. What a strange one indeed.

Perhaps the biggest advantage-or perhaps the biggest disadvantage-to living with John Watson is that John had a strictly no-funny-business attitude. Obviously he liked to have fun and indulge a little bit, but when it came to work and arriving on time, he took to his soldier habits. Because of this, Sherlock found himself being dragged out of the flat in the middle of pouring yeast into a bowl of eggs and salt-a so called experiment since John didn't have proper chemicals laying about.

"John, I have to record the results," Sherlock whined, reaching for the overflowing bowl.

Instead, John placed Sherlock's violin in his outstretched hand. "No, you have to rehearse. Now hurry up or we'll be late."

So Sherlock compelled.

The look on Lestrade's face when Sherlock waltzed into the auditorium before the trombone players was absolutely priceless. In fact, the look on the few early bird musicians' faces were all just as priceless.

"Sherlock," Lestrade laughed, reaching out to shake hands. Sherlock complied. While their hands were still joined, Lestrade explained to him "your brother called last night," to which Sherlock let out a disappointed sigh. "He acknowledged that you wouldn't be staying at your family home and asked if I would rent a room at the nearest hotel. You did get my text, didn't you?"

"Oh I got it," Sherlock nodded.

"You decided not to take the offer, then?"

"No," Sherlock said. "John Watson here has offered me a room at his flat that I'm quite content with."

"Ah," Lestrade responded, taking a glance over Sherlock's shoulder to where John was standing there a bit awkwardly. "Yes, Mr. Watson. Excellent clarinetist, one of the finest this orchestra has to offer."

Sherlock craned his neck around to stare sharply at the ex-soldier. His lips curled into a mischievous little smirk as he said "we'll see about that, won't we?"


	3. Sherlock is Still the Worst Roommate

Two weeks into rehearsing with the great Sherlock Holmes, John still hadn't been able to get used to how majestic the violinist was. Just the way he held his bow delicately between his fingers and danced upon the thin strings was enough to make John swoon. Sherlock was an indifferent character, John had soon figured out, who cared for very little other than his science and his music, but in these two interests he became more focused than John had ever seen a man in his life. However easily distracted he might be when engaged in other activities, he was the most concentrated with a violin under his chin.

That being said, John was still not apt to the idea of Sherlock's playing schedule at home. Several times John had found himself waking up at odd hours in the night to the sound of music circulating the whole of the flat. Often, while being woken so early was not John's idea of a pleasant morning, the music was pleasing and John could forgive his new flatmate. Sometimes, however, Sherlock would screech on his violin, playing ungodly notes in incomprehensible tunes that would certainly make John's ears bleed if they could be amplified. It was times like these that John wondered if Sherlock truly was a prodigy. And then all doubts would fly out the window during rehearsal when Sherlock once again became an angel of the instrument.

Sherlock, as was predictable, had very little concept of personal space and privacy. Within a few days he had become comfortable of sleeping nude and parading around the flat in nothing but a bathrobe or worse. At first John didn't mind and disregarded the behavior as a common quirk of being a genius. They were both men, after all. However, once Sherlock started to barge into the restroom to brush his teeth while John was taking a piss, John had started to complain.

"I don't understand what the big deal is," Sherlock had told him, honestly bewildered. "We're both men, after all."

And because John couldn't argue another point other than that it wasn't decent, he shut up about it.

Sex also seemed to pose a minor problem. With Sherlock home, John didn't feel comfortable bringing girls home. And sometimes, John liked to indulged himself in a short morning wank. He had tried his hardest to be discreet about it, taking care of business in the shower, but just when he had finished and emerged from the tub to get a cup of coffee, Sherlock had asked him if he had a pleasant time. John had wanted to run to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers for the rest of his life.

A week after sharing a flat, Sherlock had his belongings brought in. John was pleased to find that Sherlock had very little in terms of closet space, probably thanks to his previous world tour. He did, however, place his chemicals on John's desk, kitchen counter, bookshelves, and every which way. He did not have many possessions, but what little he did have he was not very tidy about them.

Overall, taking in Sherlock seemed to be a big mistake on John's part. Although, he had to admit life was never boring.

One Saturday night, John informed Sherlock he was going out for a drink with friends.

"How many?"

"None of your damn business."

Sherlock nodded slowly, as if intrigued. "Orchestra friends, am I right? The flutist and the cellist you spend your lunch breaks with."

"If you're jealous, just remember that I offered you to eat with us and you refused."

Sherlock laughed as if John were the funniest person in the world. "And waste my time with trivialities like dining with your dull-minded companions?"

"Hey," John snapped, getting a bit defensive. "Mike and Sarah are intelligent human beings, thank you very much!"

"If you say so," Sherlock smirked.

"Honestly," John huffed, slipping on his shoes in a frustrated manner. "You are the most arrogant bastard I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."

"And yet my music enchants you."

"You shut up."

And with that, John slammed the door shut and left Sherlock alone in the flat for the night.

 

xxx

 

Around two am, while Sherlock was in the middle of investigating Lestrade's rapidly graying hair--compliments of Sherlock taking samples off the unknowing conductor, the phone rang. At first Sherlock ignored it as he couldn't be bothered with annoyances in the middle of his investigation. When the ringing only continued and it seemed like it could not be silenced, Sherlock rolled his eyes and left his scene in favor of the phone.

"Hello? Doctor Watson isn't here at the moment."

And just as he was about to hang up, the voice on the other end caught his attention. "Hello? Yes, is this John's flatmate?"

Sherlock put the phone up to his ear, suddenly interested in the conversation. "It is."

"Ah, mister Holmes, this is Mike Stanton-"

"The cellist," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, yes I am a cellist."

"Not a good one, I'm afraid."

"Excuse me?"

"Did you want something?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject rather quickly.

Mike cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we're on the bar around the corner and John's had a bit much to drink. We were wondering if you'd come retrieve him. We'd bring him home but-" he laughed a bit. "we're a bit tipsy ourselves."

"Send him home in a cab," Sherlock suddenly snarled. "I can't be bothered right now."

"At two am? Mister Holmes, please, even you must realize how unreasonable that is."

"Is it my fault that John exceeded his alcoholic limit?" Sherlock snapped. "Why should I be held responsible for his mistakes?"

There was a pause for a moment before Mike spoke again. "Well…I just thought that, since you were friends-."

"You mistake our relationship," Sherlock interrupted again rather sharply. "I am merely inhabiting his flat. We are not friends. I don't have friends, nor do I care for making any-especially with the likes of John Watson. Send him home any way you can-or don't, I couldn't possibly care any less. Good night, cellist."

He was just about to slam the phone when another voice, one different from Mike Stanton and much more obviously drunk, took over the other line.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are the most insufferable arsehole in the universe and I want you and your things out of my flat before I come home."

And with that, the line went dead.


	4. Makeup Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I lied, there's no sex. Sorry.

John came home early Sunday morning to an empty flat. He spent the rest of the day in bed with the most glorious hangover and didn't once think of that confounded Sherlock Holmes.

Ah, peace once again.

John took the time to revel in waking up on Monday to a quiet flat. He basked in taking his time getting ready and sighed in relief as he took a nice hot shower in the privacy of his own restroom. In fact, to celebrate, John reached down between his legs and took his prick in hand. Just a short wank before rehearsal after nearly three weeks of being unable to relive any sort of sexual frustration. As a doctor, John knew the health benefits of masturbation, and so never discouraged himself from the act, and indeed it was calming. In fact, John could acknowledge that as the best orgasm he'd had in a long, long while.

John walked to the conservatory by himself that morning, the sun high and bright and the air light and freshly scented. He even hummed a little.

Upon entering the auditorium, Lestrade sharply turned around with a grand smile on his face, obviously intent on greeting Sherlock Holmes. His face fell though, upon realizing the prodigy was not at John's side as per usual.

John cleared his throat as he passed Lestrade to go to his seat, attempting not to make it seem like anything was a big deal.

"You and Holmes had a falling out?" Lestrade called out.

John froze in tracks and spun around on his heels to face his conductor. "A bit, yeah."

Lestrade gave a short chuckle and a sympathetic smile. "Understandable. I'm surprised you lasted with him thus long. Last time he was home I offered him a stay with me and I kicked him out before the night was over."

John smiled back, images of Lestrade throwing Sherlock off into the streets clouding his mind. To an outsider, it was probably a rather comedic scenario. Only Lestrade would have the guts to toss out a world class musician, after all.

"Still, it was nice seeing him get to rehearsal on time," Lestrade sighed a bit. "You were good for him, I think. He was interested in you, to say the least."

John scoffed. "Ridiculous assumption."

"No, really," Lestrade told him. "Believe me when I say Sherlock Holmes wouldn't put up with anyone he thought was dull or unintelligent, let alone agree to share a flat."

John only pressed his lips into a tight thin line and retreated to his seat as second clarinetist.

It was a good two hours before Sherlock entered the auditorium, accompanied by a young ponytailed girl that John could only recognize as an office worker at the conservatory named Molly Hooper who frequently worked the ticket booths on performance days.

"Lestrade, I believe this is one of yours," Molly said, her voice small and unconfident. "I found him asleep in the basement while I was looking for a paper."

"Good grief," Lestrade cried out. "Sherlock you are an enigma!"

Sherlock only proceeded to retrieve his violin from his case. "Molly, go sit at the piano and play an A for me to tune."

Suddenly, Molly began to stutter and twiddle her thumbs together. "Ah, m-mister Holmes, I don't…I mean I really can't…"

"Of course you can play," Sherlock scoffed. "Your fingers give it all away. Besides, it's just a note."

Still, Molly would not budge.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warned. "Don't patronize the girl."

Sherlock kept his cold stare on Molly for quite a while and the whole orchestra could just feel her shrink in his intimidating presence. Eventually, however, Sherlock complied. "Fine," he sighed. "Leave then. And I'd suggest leaving your pedophilic boyfriend as soon as possible."

At this, Molly gasped aloud and covered her mouth with her hand. From within the orchestra, John pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing how harsh Sherlock could be with the truth. Molly couldn't have possibly known her boyfriend was a pedophile. John couldn't even want to know how Sherlock had deduced that. But either way, Molly took the initiative to spin sharply on her heels and run out of the auditorium as quickly as possible.

Lestrade gave Sherlock a cold stare. "Now, was that really necessary?"

"For her happiness? Of course." Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin. "Now, I believe we have a recital to practice for."

 

\---

 

John had the absolute worst rehearsal yet. The entire time he found he could not once glance at Sherlock without feeling ridiculously guilty, and yet his gaze always seemed to wander back to the prodigy. With his back facing John, John couldn't see any facial expressions, and judging by what little time he had with Sherlock's character, he figured that if Sherlock was feeling any sort of emotion whatsoever he would hardly be showing it on his face.

John began to wonder if he was really in the wrong for kicking Sherlock out. Sherlock was, after all, a bit of a broken man. A good man, John had concluded, albeit strange, although that could be attributed to his genius nature. Geniuses did, after all, have a reputation for being quirky and unnatural in their behaviors. Albert Einstein, for instance, could hardly even tie his own shoes. Sherlock was no exception. He was peculiar in his sleeping and dietary habits and lacked basic social skills needed to function properly in society. He was stiff and John seriously doubted Sherlock knew how to have any real fun. Overall inhuman, John concluded. Inhuman, but still human after all. And humans need a roof over their heads and a proper bed to sleep in.

Sherlock had, of course, a home to go to, and John did find it ridiculous that he refused to inhabit it, but he did understand that families often have feuds and he shouldn't judge Sherlock by his familial status. If Sherlock didn't want to stay at his family home he shouldn't feel obligated to. Still, without that home he was technically homeless, and John kicking him out didn't exactly make matters any better. John hadn't predicted that Sherlock would seek refuge in the basement of the conservatory. That was actually a health hazard, from a doctor's perspective. Basements weren't known for being particularly well-heated or hygienic. Sherlock obviously couldn't stay there forever.

Lestrade's words rang in John's head over and over, reminding him that Sherlock would never have agreed to room with John if he hadn't found John interesting. It was nice to be thought of as interesting. Lestrade told John that he was good for Sherlock. John had to admit it was certainly a good thing for Sherlock to arrive to rehearsal on time, for the sake of the whole orchestra. Besides, Sherlock seemed like the type of person who needed a guardian or someone to keep his head straight. At one point during rehearsal John actually shuddered at the thought of Sherlock relapsing on his drugs so close to the recital date.

When rehearsal was finally over, orchestra members began to file away slowly, packing up their instruments and leaving the auditorium to return home after a hard day's work. Chatter became idle and still, quieter and quieter as more people left until there was a cold silence that fell across the room.

John sat in his chair watching the crowd slowly disappear, his clarinet still in his lap and unpacked. He watched Lestrade gather all his scores into his black briefcase and give John a little acknowledging see-you-tomorrow nod before exiting the auditorium.

And thus, there came to be not a single person left but John Watson and the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

With his back still facing John, Sherlock brought his violin up yet again. For the longest time he just stood there with his violin under his chin, fingers dancing upon the strings but not a sound emitting from the precious instrument.

And then the sound of the violin filled the room as Sherlock slid his bow across the delicate strings with such ease.

The tune was incomprehensible. Soft and beautiful, but with a somber and bittersweet undertone, much like Sherlock himself, for his face was like that of an angel's, but a certain sadness laid dormant within his eyes-a certain sadness that John had tried not to look at while Sherlock had been staying with him.

Not wishing to disturb the violinist, John slouched in his seat and allowed his eyes to close, his breath soft and leveled as if he were peacefully asleep. He opened his mind to Sherlock's playing and the majestic music filled his ears in such a pleasant way John began to want to fall asleep.

This was different from how Sherlock normally played. Sadder, with more emotion, as if Sherlock was unable to play as fully as he could unless he was alone. Perhaps John enjoyed Sherlock's playing better this way. Here, John could hear Sherlock's heart pouring out into the large yet vacant room. Here, John suddenly realized, is where Sherlock could truly live.

When the song was done, Sherlock let the sound of his strings fade out into the distance. He dropped his violin to his side but did not turn until John began a slow clap. He clapped his hands ever slightly faster, and eventually Sherlock swiftly spun around to face the only other occupant on the stage.

When their eyes met, each found the other's face to be emotionless and unreadable. Or, well, Sherlock could tell John was still recovering from a hangover and a rather glorious morning orgasm, but beyond that John's emotions were kept safe from Sherlock's genius mind. John fixed his eyes on Sherlock's gorgeous face, gaze traveling all the way from the tips of Sherlock's dark unruly curls to his sharp cheekbones and down to his perfectly defined lips and across his smooth porcelain skin. Like a doll, John noted. A delicate doll a child might receive for Christmas and stick onto their shelf for all eternity, too afraid to play with its sheer beauty.

John spoke first. "I didn't know you were a composer."

Sherlock gave a half-smile. "There are many things you don't know about me."

"Then there are many things to find out."

The two men smiled at each other.

Then, John's face fell and he averted his gaze away from Sherlock. "I didn't mean to kick you out. I was drunk and out of my mind and I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Sherlock assured him, taking his violin into his arms and holding it like one would a guitar. "I regret to say I'm used to being tossed out. People don't tend to enjoy my company."

"I do though," John said. "I do enjoy your company. I'm afraid my life will become rather dull now that I've had a taste of your hectic lifestyle. So, you know, I wouldn't mind of you'd like to come back."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. "I annoy you."

John shrugged. "What's life without a few annoyances?"

He flashed a smile at Sherlock, whose immediate reaction was to flash a smile right back.

"I suppose if you can't live without me-"

"Now hold up, I never said that."

Both men erupted into laughter.


	5. Star of the Show

As the day of the recital drew nearer and nearer, John found himself becoming more and more nervous, as he tended to get every performance.

He marveled in the way Sherlock kept his composure throughout last minute rehearsals, although John supposed that once one has done as many recitals as Sherlock has, one tends to become immune to pre-performance butterflies.

On opening night, John slipped on his formal black suit and had problems fumbling around with the buttons on his shirt as his fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Within two hours he had checked to make sure his clarinet was all in order a record-breaking five times. He didn't know why he was so nervous, although his best guess would be that it was because tonight he would be performing with the great world class violinist Sherlock Holmes, an international sensation. The theater would most likely be the most crowded it had ever been.

When John checked up on Sherlock, he was horrified to find Sherlock sitting there at the kitchen table in his nice formal suit, latex gloves on his hands and a micropipette in his fingers.

"Sherlock!" John cried out in exasperation. "Lestrade will give me hell if you burn a hole in your suit!"

"Relax," Sherlock assured him. "This hydrochloric acid is only point-five molar, it can hardly do any extensive damage."

"Not the point!" John hissed, reaching over to slide the pipette out from Sherlock's hands. "Get those filthy gloves off and let's go. The star of the show can't be late!"

Sherlock sighed, but obeyed and peeled the gloves from his skin.

When he stood up, John's first realization was that Sherlock's collar was inside out. "Honestly," he huffed, taking a step towards the violinist. "You're a grown man, you'd think you'd be able to dress yourself properly." With that being said, he reached up to grasp Sherlock's collar, flipping it back the right way and adjusting its symmetry. He'd have to be blind to acknowledge Sherlock's well-defined collar bones in the process, though, and boy were they defined.

Taking a step back, John could look at Sherlock head to toe and find a gorgeous creature standing in front of him. Sherlock's black slacks framed his tall thin legs, making him appear even taller and thinner. His suit fit snug against his chest, accentuating his rather sharp hipbones. The black did well to oppose his white skin, highlighting his handsome face in ways John didn't think were actually possible. John concluded that few could look finer than Sherlock did at that moment.

Lestrade was a complete and total mess.

He was often known for being a cool and collected conductor, taking pride in his conducting abilities, but because this performance was so special, his nerves were finally building up and spilling over.

When the entire orchestra was seated, Lestrade rubbed his hands together nervously. "All right you idiots," he began. "Mycroft Holmes will be here tonight so I don't want to hear a single wrong note out of any of you-especially the trumpets, Anderson I'm looking at you. Our salaries depend on his happiness so if you're thinking of buying your children Christmas gifts, I'd suggest you play like your life is on the line. I don't want the violins rushing in measure fifteen and I don't want the cellos dragging in measure seventy four or I'll hunt you all down and slit your throats in your sleep. All right? All right. Good luck." And with that being said, he left the stage to join Sherlock.

Sherlock, being backstage the whole time, had missed the rather interesting pep talk, but then again it's not like he needed one in the first place.

And thus the orchestra began warming up.

When the curtain finally rose, John found himself in the midst of more people than he had ever seen in his life. All these people came for the orchestra. More importantly, for Sherlock. God only knew how many important people were in the audience, how many people would be disappointed if they failed. If John failed. Oh, John couldn't fail. Not now. No squeaks. No hesitations. No fumbling around for the right fingers. No missed sharps. No skipped measures. Keep your eyes on the conductor. Keep your mind cleared and open. Keep your breathing controlled and regular. Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Don't mess up.

Nervewrecking.

Sherlock and Lestrade shook firm hands backstage before Lestrade exhaled sharply and walked out onto the stage. When he did, the whole theater started a near deafening clap.

Lestrade took his place at the conductor's podium and silenced the crowd. Then he turned to face his orchestra and raised his arms.

On the downbeat, the whole theater was suddenly filled with music.

The first song was played without the aide of the soloist, so John had the chance to focus on himself and his playing. For a little while, adrenaline rushed through his body and he struggled to keep in beat. Eventually though, his body became accustomed to everything and he found himself playing smoothly like he had always done in practice. He had no time in between page turning to glance up at the audience. He had no time for anything but music.

He watched Lestrade with a careful eye as Lestrade conducted furiously. His motions were sharp when the orchestra needed to play sharp, and soft when the orchestra needed to play soft. Just as any good conductor, his movements dictated the tone of the piece. This is what made Lestrade an amiable conductor, well-respected and the best of all London.

By the time the piece had ended, John was rather pleased with himself. He had played near perfect, and from what he had heard, most of the orchestra had too. When he finally allowed himself to look up at the audience, he found most of them to have pleasing expressions upon their face.

There was a pause as Lestrade took time to wipe the sweat from his forehead-as the stage could get rather hot, especially with so many people playing so hard in such hot attire in the middle of summer.

Then, Lestrade welcomed in the soloist. Ah, the highlight of the night. The moment everyone had been waiting for.

None could walk with such dignified strides as Sherlock Holmes, John concluded. None could look so majestic and proud standing up there on stage. None could look so harsh, yet calm. So contradictory. So Sherlock. And John had never heard an audience clap louder in his life.

When the second piece began, John felt as if the orchestra was finally whole again. He felt as if this was the moment he had been waiting for all his life. He had been in the presence of soloists before, but none felt as homely as Sherlock did. Sherlock belonged here. This was his orchestra. This was his home.

Sherlock did not falter once. His fingers glided nimbly with grace and conviction across his strings. His bow slid with such ease it seemed like anybody who picked up a violin could play like that. He made it look so easy to scale and slide down the notes, yet in their hearts everyone knew otherwise. Everyone knew few could play like this. Few could match up to Sherlock's standard. Few were certainly as interesting, to say the least.

And John was proud. That's our soloist, he thought. This is his orchestra. And he lives with me, John wanted to shout. A world class violinist, the best in the world, shares my home and eats my food and spills sodium hydroxide on my carpet.

This time, John watched the audience almost as much as he watched the conductor. As he put his clarinet to his lips, he witnessed the audience become just as captivated by Sherlock as John had been the first time he had heard him play.

Oh, Sherlock, John thought to himself, you've done well.

 

\---

 

And at the end of the night, when the final note was played and the final bow was taken, John finally exhaled.

The curtain fell and the orchestra was cut off from the audience. A job well done indeed.

"Congratulations," Lestrade acknowledged his musicians. "I guess we'll all keep our jobs yet."

Immediately when Lestrade spun around he found himself face to face with Sherlock, who seemed to not be as pleased as everyone else. "You didn't inform me my brother was coming," Sherlock snapped.

"Your brother owns the whole damn theater," Lestrade remarked. "He has the right to go to any performance he damn well pleases."

Sherlock huffed.

"Oh come on," Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Don't be like that. Everyone had a good time. They all loved you. Go home and don't think."

"You know I'm incapable of not thinking," Sherlock tells him.

"Well try anyways." With that being said, Lestrade walked away from the younger Holmes.

Before Sherlock even had the chance to put his instrument down, however, John crept up to him, his eyes shining bright and a smile stretching across his face from ear to ear.

"Sherlock, that was wonderful!" John laughed. "Amazing! Fantastic!" He suddenly threw his arms around Sherlock, trapping him in a tight hug and squeezing hard, like Sherlock would up and fly away if John ever let go.

Sherlock, surprised by John's movements, opened his eyes wide and parted his lips slightly. After searching for the right words to say, he settled on "you…good. You did good."

John doesn't think he'd ever been happier in his entire life.

"So, what now?" John asked on the way home. "Off to see the world again?" The times they had together were certainly eventful, and John could admit he hadn't seen that much excitement since the war, but he had to remind himself and Sherlock was a traveling star and that no matter how much London was glad to have him home, they needed to share him with the rest of the world. Still, John's heart grew heavy with the idea of Sherlock leaving so soon. What would become of them both? John would lose the only excuse he had to have some real fun, and Sherlock would lose the closest thing he would consider to be having a friend. It would be like a romantic couple breaking up. Heartbreaking.

Sherlock's response was a bit more delayed than usual. "Actually I was thinking of taking a bit of a vacation here, if you haven't gotten sick of me yet."

"Oh, not at all," John agreed excitedly, grateful that perhaps his adventure-filled days were not yet over.

Obviously, it was late when the two of them got back home. John's first instinct was to peel out of his hot suit and into a light summer bathrobe. With the adrenaline gone and the energy wiped out, he collapsed onto his bed and shut his eyes tight.

A couple hours later, still pretty much asleep, John cracked one eye open and through the crack of his slightly open door he could see that the light in the sitting room was still on and the sound of a violin filled the air.


	6. Boooooored

The entire orchestra had a vacation after their big summer recital. John found pleasure in sitting in his arm chair and reading his newspaper for as long as he pleased. He made toast and eggs for breakfast or took a trip to the local coffee shop every morning and lazied around his flat every afternoon. He was not displeased by his vacation at all.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was slowly growing mad. John could see why Sherlock had gone on so many tours. His genius mind simply needed stimulation. While many, including John, could take a few days off to relax, Sherlock was not built to survive a sedentary lifestyle. He needed activities. Stimulation. Perhaps this was why he had turned to drugs so many years ago.

John sighed, looking up from his morning newspaper. "Sherlock, please, if you're not going to play properly, I'd rather you not play at all."

Sherlock, who had been screeching away at his violin, groaned in frustration. "John I think I'm going mad."

"You are mad," John noted, nonchalantly flipping the page.

"I need a cigarette."

"No you don't."

"Well then get me something to slaughter."

"How about a nice frog to dissect?"

"Ugh, how primary school."

"This is coming from someone who didn't know Mexico was in North America."

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "Why should I care what bloody continent Mexico is on? Do I live there?"

John couldn't help but laugh a little. Nothing Sherlock could say or do could get him into a foul mood today.

And so the dangerous boredom of Sherlock Holmes continued.

Three days into vacation, John had to put out a fire in his own kitchen.

Four days into vacation, Sherlock began hurling things at the wall.

Five days into vacation, Sherlock laid on the couch and refused to get up, informing John that he was sick and literally dying of boredom.

"John, I need to get out of here."

"You were the one who said you needed a vacation."

"That was only because I didn't want to leave you."

John had grown silent after that. He truly had no idea how much he had began to impact Sherlock's life, to the point where Sherlock's schedule revolved around when he was ready to take a break from rooming with John.

And then, on the sixth day of vacation, it seemed like Sherlock had finally cracked.

All John had wanted to do that afternoon was sit watching the news in his comfortable armchair. He told Sherlock that if he wanted action so much, to go to the store and pick up some damn milk, but Sherlock had refused. "I'd rather skin myself," was his actual response.

And so Sherlock was left to sulk in his room while John relaxed in front of the telly.

Nothing particularly interesting was happening today. Another celebrity wedding. Another bank robbery. John had half a mind to fall asleep right there in his armchair.

Suddenly Sherlock emerged from his room, clad in a thin t-shirt and an elastic pair of trousers because it had just been wicked hot all week.

John didn't take too much notice to Sherlock's presence. He didn't care if Sherlock just moped around all day.

Sherlock helped himself to a cup of tea and enjoyed it at the kitchen table. Then for a few hours he entertained himself with his numerous chemicals. He had recently ordered more, but would not receive them for a few days yet, so he worked with what he had.

"Sherlock, don't get silver nitrate on my floor," John called out. "That stuff is a bitch to clean up."

As usual, Sherlock didn't respond, too engrossed in his work.

Eventually, however, not even his chemistry could keep Sherlock busy for so long.

While John was engrossed in a story about two movie stars' divorce, the television was suddenly block by a tall lanky figure. John blinked a few times. "Sherlock."

The figure took a step forward.

"Sherlock, I can't see."

Suddenly, Sherlock had thrown a leg over John's side and sat straddled across John's lap.

"Sherlock, what-," John started, obviously confused and perhaps a little bit shocked. He didn't, however, push the taller man off.

Sherlock, legs on either side of John, grasped John's shoulders with his hands tightly, securing his position on John's lap.

"Hey-," John began, but his words were cut off when Sherlock's lips suddenly pressed against his.

Surprised, John inhaled sharply, but other than that he made no effort to remove the man invading his privacy or turn away. He sat there, his body limp, and simply let it happen, though he didn't exactly know why. The natural reaction would of course be to push Sherlock away and perhaps slap him in the face a few times. But instead, John allowed Sherlock to sit their and join their lips.

John did the polite thing and closed his eyes. Sherlock's lips moved against John's ever so slightly, a rather tender kiss by John's standards. Sherlock's hands tightened around John's shoulders. Sherlock's moves were amateur and juvenile, but John had to admit Sherlock had quite a pair of soft lips, and he couldn't ignore the fact that the two of them seemed to fit together just right. However, when John did open his eyes for just a peek, he found Sherlock's eyes wide and staring right at him, as if he were analyzing John's ever mood.

This startled John, but he managed to calmly place his hands on Sherlock's chest and push the other man away. It seemed Sherlock was reluctant to end the kiss, but he did not struggle against John's hands.

"What…" John exhaled sharply. "Was that?"

"An experiment," Sherlock replied as-a-matter-of-factly before finally standing up and moving away from John.

John let out a short laugh. "What sort of bloody experiment was that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I had never kissed anyone before."

"What?" John yelled out in surprise. "Never?"

"I've never been popular with either gender."

"But you're so-," John had to clear his throat to keep him from finishing his own sentence. He hesitated, licking his freshly kissed lips slowly. "And you figured you'd take advantage of me just to find out what it's like being kissed?"

"I didn't think you'd mind," Sherlock admitted.

"You have absolutely no regard for personal space," John noted, his tone a bit sharp.

"I didn't mean anything by it"

"That's the point!" John suddenly snapped. But then he sighed and softened his voice. "Sherlock, kisses like that are supposed to be shared by people who love each other."

"But we do, don't we?" Sherlock asked.

John raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"We do," Sherlock repeated. "I can see it in the way your eyes dilate when you look at me. Your breathing changes tempo whenever I enter the room. It's usually a slow andante, but in my presence it picks up speed to an allegretto. And I-,"

"Stop," John interrupted him, holding out a hand to signal a halt. "Just stop it, okay? I don't want to hear it." He stood up abruptly, his hands falling into clenched fists at his sides. "Just leave me alone, okay?" And with that, he stormed off to his bedroom, wondering why he had taken in Sherlock Holmes in the first place.


	7. How do orchestras actually work?

The next day, orchestra practice resumed again. During the off-season rehearsal only lasted a few hours a week, since there was no need for extensive training.

John awoke bright and early to find that coffee had already been made and Sherlock was already dressed and at the kitchen table. John froze in his tracks, still hesitant to even approach the man, but he mustered up enough soldier courage to step forward. Shirt still half-unbuttoned, he took the cup of coffee obviously meant for him and took a sip. Awful. He grimaced slightly, but when he looked up he saw Sherlock's expectant eyes and realized Sherlock had put way more effort into making that cup of coffee than was needed. John had the aching feeling that if he criticized the drink, Sherlock would turn into some sort of injured puppy. So he gave his best fake smile and said "thank you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and John could already tell his lie had been seen through. Sherlock stood up in a huff. "Don't drink it if it's awful. I don't want you sick. Just dump it."

"No," John assured him. "No it's…it's good." He gave another experimental sip. Perhaps if he drank enough of it his tastebuds would become accustomed to the strange taste.

An awkward silence fell upon the room as John enjoyed himself with his morning news, perfectly aware that Sherlock was still standing there and watching him like a hawk.

At nine, John gathered his instrument and slipped on his shoes. It was a beautiful day outside, perfect for a walk to the theater. "Well," he said as he took his clarinet in hand. "I'm off to rehearsal. There's a bit of sandwich meat in the refrigerator if I'm not back in time for lunch."

"Wait," Sherlock called out. "I'm coming with you."

John gave him a quizzing look. "Sherlock, your part is done. You don't need to go."

"I want to," Sherlock told him. "To keep you company."

John was conflicted. On one hand he did rather enjoy having someone to talk to on the trip to and back from the conservatory. He found he could engage in intelligent conversations with Sherlock-good for keeping his aging brain stimulated and healthy. On the other hand, after yesterday's incident, John hardly even wanted to look the man in the eye, never mind chat with him. He knew Sherlock meant nothing by his actions, but the fact that it had happened lingered nonetheless. John was not a man to take advantage of.

But he caved in anyways. "All right," he sighed. "Hurry up then."

And so they walked side by side in silence, never once speaking of yesterday's incident. When John took a peek at Sherlock, he could practically see the violinist's apology written across his face. Sherlock rarely showed facial expressions unless he truly wanted them to be seen, and John could tell that his face was the closest thing to an apology John would get.

But what was Sherlock apologizing for, John wondered? For invading John's privacy? For the kiss itself? For deducing that John loved him?

John's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to stop thinking.

Needless to say, Lestrade was quite surprised when Sherlock showed up for rehearsal.

"Call me an observer," Sherlock told him. And of course nobody really argues with Sherlock Holmes, so an observer he was called.

Practice began with a new piece of music to sight read. John had been complimented on his sight reading skills on more than one occasion, so he had confidence in the piece, and yet he still worried, for sitting right there in the front row of the audience sat an internationally acclaimed violinist ready to jump out at any mistakes he heard.

To his surprise, Sherlock kept quiet all rehearsal. His face alternated from calm and expressionless to twisted and concentrated. Sometimes his eyes would close and sometimes they would be wide open. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and his arms folded across his chest. He kept still for the most part, but on occasion a finger or a toe would start tapping in time to Lestrade's conducting. Quite honestly, John had never seen Sherlock express so much in his face and body language.

More than once, John would look up from his music to find Sherlock's gaze directly towards him. Even from so far away, John could see the bright blaze of Sherlock's multi-colored eyes burn into John's mind. When he did look at John, Sherlock wore no emotion on his face whatsoever, so any chance John had of deciphering how Sherlock felt about his playing diminished in a heartbeat.

John played on, however, to the best he possibly could. His fingers ran nimbly across the keys of his clarinet and his breathing was kept under control, his eyes racing across page after page, scanning each individual note and executing it precisely.

"We'll stop here for today," Lestrade informed his orchestra. He then turned to Sherlock and the two of them exchanged handshakes. Afterwards, Sherlock's arms slinked back to their original crossed position.

When everyone started leaving, John packed his instrument quickly and walked briskly towards Sherlock until he was standing not a foot away from him. Their eyes met for a long time, but neither of them said a word. John found himself a bit disappointed. He didn't really know what he was expecting Sherlock to even say. Perhaps a "good job" or a "you played well." John could have even settled for a "you sucked, here's what you need to improve." But instead, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and his lips pressed together tightly.

The two of them just stood there staring at each other for the longest time, until Sherlock finally uncrossed his long legs and stood. When he did, John found he had to look up in order to meet Sherlock's gaze, and perhaps it was a metaphor for their careers. No matter what John did, he would always be inferior to the amazing Sherlock Holmes. The international phenomena. The violinist all violinists aspire to play like. And it wasn't like John minded too much-after all he didn't exactly want to be in the spotlight and Sherlock seemed like he just belonged there. He certainly deserved it.

It wasn't until halfway home that Sherlock spoke to John for the first time since that early morning.

"It's not fair," he suddenly remarked out of the blue.

"What isn't?" John asked.

"That Sally Donovan. She's an atrocious clarinetist."

John was taken aback. "How do you mean?"

"Well, she has no doubt a taste for technique, and she does make fewer mistakes than you-," John was perhaps a bit offended by that statement, but Sherlock continued on like he hadn't noticed. "But she has no feeling for the instrument. She plays in mezzopiano and mezzoforte with no in-between or beyond. She can't crescendo to save her life and quite honestly, she looks like she's in pain every time she touches her lips to her instrument."

John opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He contemplated Sherlock's insults, though. It's true, John hadn't heard much of a tone range from her instrument now that Sherlock had mentioned it.

Suddenly, Sherlock let out a short growl. "I told Lestrade to demote her years ago."

"Sherlock!" John cried out. "You didn't! Well no wonder she hates you so much!"

"I did," Sherlock defended himself. "I told him she had no business being first clarinet. He told me she was the best that orchestra had to offer and I told him if that was so, he should find some other clarinetist, and now he's got one and he still hesitates to strip her of her chair!"

"Who?" John asked, genuinely curious. "What do you mean Lestrade's got a better clarinetist? Who is it?"

Sherlock gave John a look like John was supposed to have known already. They stopped in their tracks and their eyes met for only the millionth time that day. Sherlock licked his bottom lip once and swallowed before he opened his mouth to whisper "you."

John was perplexed. "Me?" He asked, as if he were going deaf and perhaps had misheard Sherlock.

"Did I stutter?" Sherlock mocked him, his tone completely serious and his eyes narrowed.

"But you just said-,"

"I said you miss more notes than her," Sherlock interrupted him. "But that isn't all there is to playing an instrument. In terms of overall performance, you are in fact the better clarinetist."

John exhaled sharply and stumbled around his mind for the right words to say. Never before had he been quite insulted and complimented at the same time, especially by the likes of Sherlock. In fact, it was the first time since they had first met that Sherlock had ever mentioned John's playing, and now he was saying John was the best clarinetist of the orchestra?

"I can see it when you play," Sherlock continued. "That instrument is your life, is it not?"

"I…I'd rather die than lose it," John stuttered in agreement.

"Good," Sherlock replies. "Keep that mentality and success will follow soon thereafter."

John bit his lips a few times before he could muster out "thank you" followed by a "I think."


	8. Cute Idiots

With a free afternoon, John tended to enjoy a nice rest in his comfy armchair with a sophisticated book. Today, however, John's mind seemed to be at a certain unease. Instead of enjoying the fine classics of Lewis Carroll, his mind wandered off more often than not and John found himself in deep thought. As Sherlock played the violin on the opposite side of the room, John recalled Sherlock's earlier statement that John should be first clarinetist and wondered if there was some deep psychoanalytical ulterior motive to Sherlock's unusually kind words. Never in their short time together had Sherlock ever truly complimented someone the way he had complimented John. It was a rather strange compliment, yes, but John figured it was the best he'd ever get out of the musical genius.

He unconsciously touched his fingers to his lips, as if he could still feel Sherlock's presence there. He recalled Sherlock saying that their kiss was his first, and perhaps John felt a bit of pride there.

Then there was the matter of Sherlock spouting that they were obviously in love with each other. John couldn't know how anyone could possibly judge love based on physical attributions, but if anyone could, it would be Sherlock. Do his eyes really dilate in Sherlock's presence? It's not like John can see for himself. Did he really love Sherlock? He enjoyed his company, yes, but was that love? Perhaps John didn't really know what love was. All his previous relationships had ended in disaster, some girls complaining that John didn't truly love them. What, then, was love?

When John came back to reality for a split second, he realized the air was quiet. When had Sherlock stopped playing? And where was the rascal anyways?

Sherlock turned out to be standing directly across from John, violin at his side and his face buried into his elbow.

John sighed and slammed his unfinished book shut. "What's up with you?" he asked.

Sherlock did not remove his arm from his face as he stared directly into John's eyes and took several deep breaths.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

And then Sherlock spoke, his voice strained as if he was trying to hold himself back. "I have the impending urge to kiss you again."

John opened his mouth, shut it, opened it, and shut it again. Contemplating the proper thing to say, he licked his lips a few times before deciding on giving a slight nod. "Okay," he finally said. "All right, we need to talk."

"I don't want to talk," Sherlock whined, still unable to cover his face.

"That isn't for you to decide," John answered. "Set your violin down and come sit here you big baby." He patted the seat across from him.

Sherlock obeyed, albeit hesitantly, and gently laid his precious instrument across the table before taking the seat across from John. His hands balled into fists on his lap as if he were trying to control himself.

John sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, obviously troubled by the situation. "This isn't working," He admitted.

Sherlock looked up at John sharply. "What isn't?"

"This…this…" John flailed his hand around the air a bit. "Thing. Us dancing around like nothing happened. We need to discuss our feelings."

Sherlock gave a bit of a grimace. "I'd rather not."

"If you don't speak, it's only going to get worse," John told him.

Sherlock averted his eyes away from John. "I already told you. We love each other. It's only obvious."

"Ah ah ah," John interrupted him. "That's not the only factor to consider though, is there? There's also the matter of you invading my privacy-."

"I'm sorr-."

"Don't," John cut him off again. Sherlock complied and shut up and John leaned back in his chair. For a long time, silence fell upon the room. Neither man made eye contact with each other. John furrowed his eyebrows in frustration because Sherlock was indeed a frustrating man. He sat in thought for a long time, contemplating each decision and each consequence. On one hand, he wasn't sure how he would be able to live day to day without Sherlock's company –not after getting a taste of chaos. Then again, he wasn't sure how he would be able to handle Sherlock if they became a couple. Sherlock wasn't exactly the coupley type of person after all, John had noticed. "So…" John started. "What do you suggest we do now?"

Sherlock was hesitant to respond. "Well, I suppose the most natural thing to do when two people are fond of each other is to pursue a relationship."

John shook his head. "But you don't want that."

"I'm willing to try."

John stared straight at the man across him and found nothing but determination upon Sherlock's face. Sherlock was not someone who did things halfheartedly as long as he was interested in them, and as John could recall Lestrade's words, Sherlock was certainly interested in John.

"This won't work," John told him. "You…you travel. We'll be apart often. You…you'll find some other interest and-."

"John," Sherlock's tone was harsh enough to make John instantly shut up. "I promise you this is no fleeting interest. Never before have I felt something like this." And when John glanced at Sherlock's expression, he found Sherlock to look almost like he was in some sort of pain. "This…this feeling is so new to me," Sherlock explained. "And I'm scared."

John's face softened. "Oh Sherlock, there's nothing to be afraid of."

"There is!" Sherlock cried out. "I'm frightened because I don't know what to do. I've never been good with other people. I don't know how to talk without offending others, I don't know how close or how far to stand away from a person, and I certainly don't know when it's okay to touch. I've always been afraid that if I was ever in a relationship, I'd screw something up and they'd leave me and so I've always repressed my emotions. But then you came along and I fell in love and I couldn't control myself around you to the point where I exploded and acted out, and that's why I kissed you, but of course that was a mistake because all I do is make mistakes and-," Sherlock stopped short, perhaps realizing that he was straying too far and revealing too much about himself. So he huffed and tucked his knees into his chest on the chair and hid his face from John again. "This is all your fault," he hissed in frustration.

John was taken aback. He listened to Sherlock's rant in stunned silence. He had no idea how much of a struggle Sherlock's own mind was to him. It was a common philosophy that geniuses knew everything about everything but themselves. It was truly an amazing phenomena, how such an expressive musician could not control his own emotions off stage. Amazing, but heartbreaking. No person should have to feel conflicted over their own feelings, John decided.

Making his final decision, John briskly stood from his armchair and stepped in front of the cowering violinist. He relaxed his facial muscles as he pried Sherlock's hands from his face. John watched Sherlock's expression grow into that of surprise as John stepped ever so closer and leaned forward so that they were eye level. With their faces mere centimeters apart, Sherlock flinched for a second, and then John pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes wide and eyebrows high, his heart beginning to race fast within his chest.

John took his hands and touched Sherlock's face, gently caressing the soft flesh of Sherlock's jaw as they kissed. Sherlock's own hands were unsure of what to do, clenching and unclenching over and over at his sides.

A few moments later, John's eyes cracked open just a bit and he chuckled against Sherlock's lips. "Sherlock," he whispered, breaking the kiss in favor of taking a breath. "It's polite to close your eyes when kissing."

Sherlock's lips stayed parted, his jaw dropped slightly and his eyes still wide, his face frozen in shock. Then he swallowed sharply and asked "can I kiss you again?"

John cracked a smile and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips. "You don't have to ask for permission, you know."

Sherlock's response was to throw his arms around John and smash their lips together-eyes closed this time-and off they went snogging into the night.


	9. Inexperience

Dating Sherlock was like dating a child. Being in a relationship was, of course, new to Sherlock. He had, of course, warned John of his lack of experience and John had, of course, told him not to worry, that he'd learn soon enough. Sherlock was not very fond of touch. He liked touching, yes, but when John wanted to return the favor, Sherlock would often back away on reflex. He was also not a very romantic person. He didn't understand the concept of going out to fancy restaurants for non business-related purposes.

"It's romantic," John had said.

"It's excessive and unnecessary," was Sherlock's response.

"Well then where do you suggest we go for dates?"

"Why do we have to go on dates anyways?"

"Because that's what normal couples do!"

"Is it?"

"Yes!"

"Oh," Sherlock said disappointedly. "How dull."

Sherlock still insisted on accompanying John to rehearsal, if only to defeat boredom.

On a day where he was feeling particularly touchy, Sherlock walked beside John with his fingers inconspicuously grazing by John's every so often.

John, however, was not an idiot, and could see through Sherlock's intentions quite clearly. He broke out into a smirk, silently laughing to himself at the fact that a grown man like Sherlock could still act like a shy high school girl trying to get her little crush to notice her.

In order to spare Sherlock the frustration, John took the initiative to slip his hand into Sherlock's, interlacing their fingers together.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, and John only smiled back at him. "You can hold my hand, you know," he teased him. "It's not like you're trying to inconspicuously slip me drugs."

Sherlock's response was to turn his head away from John in embarrassment, which only made John chuckle to himself.

Having Sherlock at rehearsal certainly was having an effect on the orchestra. With his cold stare and harsh observations, Lestrade found his musicians to be the best behaved and the most practiced they've ever been. Perhaps it was because everyone was afraid of being insulted by the prodigy that they worked extra hard and made fewer mistakes than ever before.

While Sherlock enjoyed his 'vacation' with John, however, the rest of the world was impatiently waiting for his next appearance. Sherlock's phone would often ring with texts from Mycroft's employees and, more recently, from Mycroft himself as he had become quite as impatient as the rest of the universe.

_The Boston Symphony Orchestra wants you. You like America, don't you? Get back to me if you're interested_

_-MH_

"Who was that text from?" John asked, getting rather suspicious of all the recent texts Sherlock had been getting and ignoring.

"Nobody important," Sherlock shrugged without even glancing at his phone.

"Oh okay." And John knew he should probably look into it, but perhaps he was a bit selfish and feared for the day Sherlock must travel again.

_Or how about Spain? They love you in Spain._

_-MH_

_If you prefer to stay in England, you've been invited to play at a Cambridge U reception._

_-MH_

_You could play for the Prime Minister's birthday._

_-MH_

_Sherlock, for god's sake pick or I'll pick for you._

_-MH_

Boring. Boring, boring, dull and boring.

_The International Violin Competition is coming up if you'd rather prepare for that. Surprise, it's in London this year._

_-MH_

Oh, finally something of interest.

"John, I'm competing in the international violin competition."

John looked up from his book. "Haven't you won that like, two years in a row? Why not give someone else a chance?"

"Because if that someone else is Jim Moriarty, I won't have it."

Ah, yes. Jim Moriarty, a Scottish violinist said to rival even Sherlock's talent. He had only been gaining popularity in recent years, but his fame spread quick and he was known for having a notorious personality, being able to manipulate by any means to get whichever recital he wanted. John shuddered at the thought of such a cheating man becoming reigning world champion. "Well then you better start practicing," he nodded.

And Sherlock did.

Of course, one of the prerequisites for entering the competition was the need for a piano accompanist. While the audience was impressed by Sherlock's talent, many pianists feared him, for he was famous for making accompanists cry and run out of the room within an hour of meeting him, and thus avoided him at all costs. It was difficult finding an accompanist to willingly play for Sherlock that was of the high quality that Sherlock expected all his accompanists to have. If John could play piano, Sherlock could have settled, but alas John had no experience with the instrument.

One day after a scheduled afternoon rehearsal, John excused himself. "Just need to pop off to the loo for a bit."

With the room emptied and vacant, Sherlock leaned against the wall next to the backstage doorway and crossed his arms over his chest, patiently waiting.

Just a few short moments later, a familiar female secretary cautiously walked onto the stage like a mouse, taking each step as carefully as possible. When Molly Hooper hadn't noticed Sherlock, he straightened his back and watched her curiously. It was obvious she believed everyone had left.

Molly, her hair combed back into a neat ponytail, carefully stepped across the stage as if she wasn't allowed to be there. Her destination, as Sherlock suspected, was the piano. She approached the fine instrument in the center of the stage as if it were dangerous and, with her back turned to Sherlock, reached her hand out and ran it across the surface of the object of her desire.

As Sherlock could have predicted, her next move was to sit at the piano and uncover the keys. She marveled at them for a moment before hesitantly touching one. It hardly made a sound, but she jumped a little anyways.

Then she positioned her hands above the keys, and played.

Beethoven's Pathetique, second movement. A slow and soft andante that made for a sweet melody, but only if played in the right hands, and indeed these hands were right.

Sherlock looked on with concentrated eyes as she played. It from there on he decided that she, yes she, the lowly secretary who once found him asleep in the basement, would become his accompanist.

When John showed up a minute later, the gaze Sherlock gave him made him halt in his tracks. The music of Molly's ingenious playing filled his ears and he understood Sherlock's intentions completely without a single word exchanged.

And thus the two of them listened on. John closed his eyes to hear better, his mind at peace and his heart relaxed, while Sherlock looked on with wide eyes, heart racing in anticipation. This was the passion in their bodies, expressed in contradictory ways.

When the piece was over, Molly lingered over the piano for just a moment more. And then, the sound of clapping startled her. She snapped her head around and found two men standing there, one taller the source of the clapping and the shorter other simply smiling.

Sherlock did not ceasing his clapping as he walked towards her until he was an appropriate distance away. In reaction, Molly swiftly stood, as if she had just been caught in the middle of a crime. Her face twisted into a mix between surprise and absolute horror.

She remained frozen as Sherlock took one of her hands into his.

"The sound that emanates from the tips of your fingers is a sound few can achieve," Sherlock says breathlessly, gently caressing Molly's hand, his eyes staring at the calluses that covered her fingertips wide and in awe. Molly, of course, was left speechless. Her mind was in shock upon being caught playing by the genius of the entire music world and even being complimented by such a phenomenal violinist.

"Be my accompanist," Sherlock stated simply, never being one to dance around a topic.

Molly began to stutter. "I…I can't…I mean, I don't…I don't play in public."

"What you mean is that you haven't played in public," Sherlock corrected her. Then his expression turned serious. "Play with me, Molly Hooper, and your name will be known across the globe. People will shower you with love and your face will be synonymous to glory. Would you like that?"

And Molly, perhaps still in disbelief, could only nod quickly in response.

Behind the both of them, John's smile turned into a great big grin.


End file.
